


Auto Wreck

by ATwistOfLemonLyman



Series: The Gods Have Conspired [8]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Inspired by Poetry, Jewish Characters, Judaism, OC-centric, Poetry, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 21:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18668422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATwistOfLemonLyman/pseuds/ATwistOfLemonLyman
Summary: Jacob Lyman’s world comes crashing down.





	Auto Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to do this to you all but this has been sitting in my drafts for eons and I felt a sudden urge to finish it. First poem ain’t mine, the second one is (the latter inspired by the former).

  

 

> “ _Auto Wreck_ ” by Karl Shapiro
> 
>   
>  " _Its quick soft silver bell beating, beating,_
> 
> _And down the dark one ruby flare_
> 
> _Pulsing out red light like an artery,_
> 
> _The ambulance at top speed floating down_
> 
> _Past beacons and illuminated clocks_
> 
> _Wings in a heavy curve, dips down,_
> 
> _And brakes speed, entering the crowd._
> 
>  
> 
> _The doors leap open, emptying light;_
> 
> _Stretchers are laid out, the mangled lifted_
> 
> _And stowed into the little hospital.  
>  _
> 
> _Then the bell, breaking the hush, tolls once._
> 
> _And the ambulance with its terrible cargo_
> 
> _Rocking, slightly rocking, moves away,  
>  _
> 
> _As the doors, an afterthought, are closed._
> 
>  
> 
> _We are deranged, walking among the cops_
> 
> _Who sweep glass and are large and composed._
> 
> _One is still making notes under the light._
> 
> _One with a bucket douches ponds of blood_
> 
> _Into the street and gutter.  
>  _
> 
> _One hangs lanterns on the wrecks that cling,_
> 
> _Empty husks of locusts, to iron poles._
> 
>  
> 
> _Our throats were tight as tourniquets,_
> 
> _Our feet were bound with splints, but now,_
> 
> _Like convalescents intimate and gauche,_
> 
> _We speak through sickly smiles and warn_
> 
> _With the stubborn saw of common sense,_
> 
> _The grim joke and the banal resolution._
> 
>  
> 
> _The traffic moves around with care,  
>  _
> 
> _But we remain, touching a wound  
>  _
> 
> _That opens to our richest horror.  
>  _
> 
> _Already old, the question_
> 
> _Who shall die? Becomes unspoken_
> 
> _Who is innocent?  
>  _
> 
> _For death in war is done by hands;  
>  _
> 
> _Suicide has cause and stillbirth, logic;_
> 
> _And cancer, simple as a flower, blooms._
> 
> _But this invites the occult mind,  
>  _
> 
> _Cancels our physics with a sneer,  
>  _
> 
> _And spatters all we knew of denouement_
> 
> _Across the expedient and wicked stones."_

 

* * *

 

_**New York** _

_**1999** _

* * *

 

Dim light from a reading lamp.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep

He’d wanted to wait up,

To ask about the party

And listen to their stories

Of pompous academics.

 

He hasn’t been asleep long-

Outside: nothing but moonlight

And traffic lights.

Inside: Light creeps through from the hallway,

Creeps through the gaps between the door and the frame,

Between the door and the floor.

And it isn’t just light that creeps through the gaps.

 

The sounds of smothered sobs

Travel with the light.

 

He responds to the crying

With the Morse code of rug-rug-rug-wood-wood-wood-rug-rug-rug

As his bare feet take him out of his room

And down the hallway.

 

It’s Leah.

It’s Leah who’s crying, not Mamme.

Leah who’d told him to get into bed,

Mamme and Bubbeh would be home soon.

  


They’re gone, they’re gone, I’m so sorry, they’re gone.

 

Gone where? Gone where? What do you mean?

 

A whisper:

They’re dead. They’re gone. A terrible wreck.

Dead on arrival. Nothing could be done.

 

Nothing.

His world becomes nothing,

Nothing but the feeling

Of a pair of hands holding his arms,

Anchoring him; to what, he doesn’t know.  

What can one cling to when the whole world is gone?

 

-

 

Mamme, who do we say Kaddish for?

 

Mother.

Father.

Sister.

Brother.

Husband.

Wife.

Daughter.

Son.

 

I haven’t a father, no sister nor brother.

Too young for a husband, wife, daughter, or son.

 

I only have you, Mamme. I’ll say Kaddish for one.

 

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY NOT SORRY! Please review if you liked it!


End file.
